Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“This isn’t good, sir.”

Demetrius looks up from the polling survey and across the desk to Wilson, his chief campaign aide, and frowns slightly. He was in the middle of a deep thought when the man had sighed in frustration and defeat, indicating without words that he had something on his mind.

Demetrius knows he should ask, but he doesn’t. He’s too tired for one, and too puzzled by current events for another, so instead, he waits.

Wilson flips a few pages of the file he holds in his hand and sighs once again.

“Not good,” the man repeats. “Definitely not good.”

Demetrius can guess what he’s referring to, and a not-quite-scowl of irritation flicks across his face as Wilson continues to bemoan the obvious.

It is the middle of the night and they are sitting in the darkened office that has been converted to the campaign headquarters for this, Demetrius’ first run for political office. It is a position of small importance that he’s in the running for, and it’s just a stepping stone in the grand scheme of things, but that hardly matters: everyone starts somewhere, and failure is not an option if he hopes to have any grander ambitions at all.

For Demetrius, there is no other trajectory for his life to take. All his life he has known this is how it would be: win political positions, work his way up, and someday become Prime Minister of Ostania, just like Father was. It is a life plan that he’s been told since his earliest days, and ever since he graduated university, the trainings – and resultant expectations – have only increased in intensity.

Currently, he is twenty-nine years old though he gives the impression of being much older. He is a worldly individual, highly educated, well read (two very different qualities), is knowledgeable about politics, and has traveled extensively all over the world. He has graduated, with honors, from Eden and the University of Berlint with a trail of academic accomplishments in his wake. Repeated exposure to people and the coaching of various experts has helped him become less taciturn than in his school days, though he still hates crowds and always keeps a distance between himself and others. He has learned and experienced things beyond his peers, and his mind operates with cool logic and a detachment that helps him see the bigger picture when presented with a problem.

He should be the perfect choice for any political office. And yet...

“We’re losing,” Demetrius states succinctly. “Badly.”

The numbers don’t lie. Recent polls have shown that Demetrius is not in the lead, in fact, he’s not even in the top three and there are only four contenders for the spot to begin with. He isn’t even trailing by a small margin, a figure that he’s double-checked himself just to be sure.

He can’t understand it. His initiatives are sound, precise. His speeches are workshopped by a team of the best writers available to be the perfect blend of engaging and optimistic. He smiles for cameras, goes to events, gets his name and face out there just as he’s told to do by the advisors and PR people, but nothing seems to help.

It’s something else he can’t define, and that bothers him.

He’s a genius. He should be able to understand anything.

Wilson nods grimly. “At this rate your name won’t even be on the polls. If we can’t win this next round of elections...”

He trails off and rubs his hand against his mouth, but his eyes admit defeat. An older man by about fifteen years, Wilson was hired by Donovan to be a steady and experienced hand for Demetrius’ first real campaign. He is doing a good job and is a Desmond supporter through and through, but even he sees the situation as hopeless.

That’s something that should make Demetrius feel angry, or frustrated, or scared, but instead he just feels.... nothing. As usual.

“We’ll just have to win the next round, then,” Demetrius responds, and in another person’s mouth it would be optimistic bravado, maybe even charming, but his tone makes it seem like the obvious next step which Wilson is too dull to see instead. The other man shifts in his chair and hides his frown. Demetrius knows he doesn’t like being told what to do by someone so much younger than him, but he was hired to run this campaign and that means Demetrius is in charge.

“You’re going to have to do a lot of catching-up then, sir.” Wilson indicates the file in his hand. “You’re dead last among all the demographics and people don’t understand your policies. Those who do understand them, don’t think you can pull them off. They say you’re too young, too inexperienced, too remote—”

“My policies are sound,” he interrupts. He doesn’t care about the comments on his youth or his personality, because why should he? But he knows that his ideas make sense, even if nothing else about the situation does.

“Maybe, but they are very harsh in a lot of ways, and people don’t like that.”

People. Always people. His whole life has been nothing but “People expect a Desmond to behave a certain way,” or “People will be shocked if you earn less than four Stellas,” or “People want someone who makes them feel supported and seen.” He’s tried to do all of that and more; what more do “people” want?

He doesn’t understand.

A headache starts to form behind his temple and his eyes ache with tiredness. He doesn’t slump or rub his forehead like he wants to, so instead he stands up abruptly and waits for Wilson to do the same.

“We can talk more tomorrow,” he tells the man, and that is all. It is a dismissal, nothing more, and Wilson barely hides his anger at the curtness of it.

“Right. Tomorrow.”

Wilson leaves and then Demetrius is alone – blessedly, finally alone. The quiet settles around him in the darkened office and he feels the knot in his chest loosen. He exhales once, twice, and then sits back down, his gaze staring at the metal desktop with unseeing eyes.

It is late, well past midnight, but this time of night is his favorite. He would get all of his best studying and essay writing done at this time, and even though his body craves rest, his mind is alert and engaged like it hardly ever is during the day when the office space is alive with chatter and the near-constant ringing of phones and the click-clack of typewriters.

He doesn’t have a separate office for himself. Wilson thought it would help him be seen as “in the trenches” if his desk was among the others’, but Demetrius feels it actually does the opposite. Certainly, no one really approaches him unless they absolutely have to, and even those interactions are brief and only make him feel more isolated rather than less.

Sometimes he looks around at the people who are also working on the campaign and feels as if he’s an entirely separate entity from all of them, something inhuman and ageless, who observes but can’t understand them at all. Their cares, their jokes, their day-to-day lives seem so remote and unimportant, and he feels adrift among them, lost in the ebb and flow of their conversations and arguments that crash around him like waves on the shore.

He is so tired.

He stands and clicks off the desk lamp. His eyes adjust to the gloom and he takes in the area around him: the rows of metal desks, semi-cluttered, that form makeshift aisles across the room; the phones and type-writers, now temporarily silent; the filing cabinets against one wall; the meager coffee station in the far corner; the campaign posters tacked up at even intervals showing a Demetrius he does not recognize, one who has softer features and kinder eyes, posing in profile above vaguely inspiring slogans he did not write himself.

It all seems so... alien, like the ruins of a civilization he was never a part of, or cogs for a machine he doesn’t know how to operate.

He wonders, for a moment, what he’s doing here.

Then he picks up his jacket from the back of the chair and goes home. Tomorrow, after all, is another day. The office will be full of people again, and he must prepare himself.

It is ten in the morning when the girl walks into the office.

A girl in the office is not by itself unusual. The workers on the campaign are mostly men who were hired by Donovan, but there are some girls among the staff as well. Mostly, they are university students looking to earn some extra credit points from their Political Science professors by volunteering, but they are few in number at this point in the campaign as they’ve sensed which way the wind is blowing. Those that do still come by to do the random bits of typing and filing required trickle in and out as their schedules allow, and they always look vaguely bored and irritated when they do, as if Demetrius’ sinking ship is somehow a personal insult to the value of their time.

But this girl is as different as they come.

For one thing, she strides in the door and up the main aisle as if this is her office and not his, the slightly imperious look and upward tilt of her chin making everyone else seem insignificant as she walks past them. She looks and moves like a fashion model, and every motion seems designed to draw the eye even as she ignores those around her. Her tight, V-neck sweater of coral pink and long, black, floral-printed skirt hugs her hips and thighs even as it opens slightly at the knee with each step. He can tell that she might be dressed in the more bohemian style popular with college students, but each item of clothing from her wood-and-suede sandals to her patchwork-pattern purse is from the top department store in the city and speaks of upper-crust society.

He finds himself uninterested in looking away, and he wonders if her voice will be as pleasing to the ear as her appearance is to his gaze.

Demetrius allows himself to feel a slight curiosity. What is a girl like this – young (she seems no older than early-twenties), bright, and, yes, beautiful – doing here in the half-deserted campaign headquarters of the current loser?

He sits in his chair, watching her as she approaches, and her eyes (a curious mix of amber and brown) never leave his, which is new. Women – most men, even – can’t look Demetrius in the eye for long, his steady, unreadable gaze making them uncomfortable, but this girl (whoever she is) seems strangely unaffected. If anything, her expression seems almost amused as she walks up to his desk, and when she finally stands in front of him, one of her dark eyebrows is lifted.

“So,” she begins in a voice of vague interest, “you’re Demetrius.”

Her eyes take him in and he wonders what she sees. For a simple moment he hopes he comes off well, and then the judgment flicks across her delicate features.

Unimpressive.

The softly curious feeling of before vanishes in an instant. Instead, something in him bristles.

“I am,” he replies, and then gives her nothing else. The silence stretches. She seems irritated, he is pleased to note.

“I’m Becky Blackbell,” she continues when he makes no indication of asking for himself. “Damian mentioned that you needed help?”

Now, this is surprising.

He recognizes the name, of course. Blackbell Industries has been business partners with the Desmonds for years, and the heiress in front of him is a well-known figure in Berlint society for all that she’s only twenty-two and still in undergraduate studies. More than that, he’s definitely heard Damian mention her name a few times before, though he’s never really cared to pay much attention to the context of when or how. In school he always had bigger, more important things to worry about than his kid brothers’ rag-tag little group, never mind that most of them are the heirs apparent to some of Ostania’s most prominent families. After graduation, nothing changed.  

Well, one thing has changed, he supposes. He and his younger brother are on much better footing these days, but while he’s discussed a few instances of staffing woes, Demetrius never expected – or wanted – Damian to do anything about it. This campaign is Demetrius’ responsibility, and he had waved away Damian’s worries and sadness about not being able to help as the platitudes he had thought they were at the time.

He must have been mistaken, though, and it irks him to think that his little brother, of all people, feels the need to step in and get help for Demetrius. He has an image of Damian going around with his metaphorical hat in hand to beg his little circle of friends to spare some time for his desperate older brother on this, his doomed campaign, and a sudden feeling of frustration wells up in his breast.

Who does Damian and this girl think they are?

He keeps his voice neutral, polite, but firm as he opens his mouth to deny her. “We don’t—”

“Can you type?” Wilson barges in. “How about filing? Cold calling?”

Demetrius tries to remain impassive as Wilson takes over the conversation, and Miss Blackbell flicks one long section of dark brown hair over her shoulder as she turns away from his desk completely. He notices that her hair catches the light with fawn undertones, and that irritates him further.

“I can type, and sure, I can file,” she replies to Wilson as if Demetrius is not there, even though it’s his campaign and, technically, she should be asking him for a job. She also smiles at Wilson, which she did not do for Demetrius. “But after today I can only come in for a few hours on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings.”

“That’s fine,” Wilson nods eagerly. “Let me show you to your desk...”

And just like that she is walking away without a backward glance.

He watches the way her legs shift under her skirt as she moves off, then he goes back to his work, determined not to let the memory of her unimpressed look crowd his mind.

He’ll have a talk with Damian AND Wilson later, but one thing he knows: this girl is not staying.

Demetrius looks at the machine, and something like perplexity makes the corners of his mouth turn down.

It is a large thing, chrome-colored bordering on gold, and looks like a fire hydrant but with extra knobs and two spouts and dials and trays on each side. The curly script engraved on the front proclaims it is a “Victoria Arduino,” which helps him not at all, and while he can guess at what it is, that doesn’t explain why it is suddenly here in the office and taking up far too much space at the coffee station.

“Wilson,” he turns his head to where his aide is currently scanning over something on a clipboard. “Why is this here?”

Wilson looks up and Demetrius swears that the man’s lips twitch.

“It’s an espresso machine, sir.”

As if Demetrius, who has had a caffeine addiction since middle school, wouldn’t know that.

“That isn’t what I asked. I know what it is. But why is it here?”

“Becky had it delivered and installed yesterday after she left and you went to that political rally,” he shrugs, as if that explains anything at all.

Becky. He should have known. It’s only been one week since that girl started working on the campaign but Demetrius swears that she’s managed to put her manicured hands into every aspect of office life since then.

His attempt to oust her has been unsuccessful so far, which is ridiculous because it is his campaign to begin with. He had let her stay that first day without comment, but though her desk was positioned behind his line of sight, he could still hear and sense everything she did. Every page flip, every round of typing, every tap of her eraser on the notepad in front of her echoed above the usual hubbub of the office like a siren in his ear, and worst of all, she loved to talk.

Not a few minutes would go by that someone would stop by her desk (why? She had barely any responsibilities!) and ask for something, or introduce themselves, and that would lead to a breezy, sometimes lengthy conversation, full of bright chatter and casual laughter, the kind that Demetrius always considered utterly banal but that Becky seemed to love. He’s pretty sure by the end of that day most of the office workers considered her a friend, and he’s positive that he heard her dispense relationship advice in an undertone to Wilson as well.

He stayed away from her desk, of course, and he was pleased to see that she did not seek him out, either. In fact, besides that initial meeting between them, she acted as if Demetrius was not even there.

Which was a good thing, naturally. After all, someone had to stay hard-working and focused, and if everyone else on staff was too busy falling over themselves to get close to the weapons heiress, then it would just have to be him.

Everyone only seems to have good things to say about her even though she barely got any typing or work done that first day, and when he had broached the subject of letting her go with Wilson, the man had looked legitimately alarmed.

“We shouldn’t, sir,” he had insisted. “She’s an excellent worker –” (if Demetrius had been raised to snort derisively then he would have) “—and she’s going to ask some of her classmates to come help us prepare for the fundraiser this weekend. Plus, it would be bad optics. The Blackbell heiress is volunteering for your campaign! Her family name has a lot of influence and we shouldn’t do anything to risk the potential support when we need it so badly.”

Wilson’s reasons had made sense so Demetrius had let it drop; but that did not mean he approved.

His disapproval has good grounds, in his opinion. The Blackbell girl has already completely upended everything from the way they file call lists to the design of the campaign fliers, and any time she is in the office a whirl of activity follows that leaves chaos in her wake.

Well, chaos to Demetrius, at least. Everyone else seems to love it.

“Becky has been so helpful—”

“Those new office supplies are amazing—”

“And she’s so nice!”

That’s all he hears whenever he happens upon a group of workers – his workers – unawares. They clam up as soon as they notice him and the group breaks apart, but he knows each and every one of them feel lucky and glad that Becky is around.

She isn’t quite the bane of Demetrius’ existence, but she’s getting there.

And now, even when she’s not physically present, she is finding new ways to aggravate him.

Demetrius takes a breath and gestures to the espresso machine along with the random coffeehouse accoutrements that are lined up neatly beside it.

“Get rid of it. All of it.” His voice books no argument. “We don’t need this.”

“Oh, yes, we do,” Becky’s voice cuts in, and Demetrius looks around.

She stands there, arms crossed over her chest, looking determined and annoyed as she all but taps her foot. She is wearing a more sensible outfit today (brown turtleneck, wide-legged trousers in a neutral beige, and clog-like shoes with a thick heel) but instead of looking less fashionable, she somehow manages to seem like a fashion plate for young, ambitious college girls with style everywhere.

Demetrius doesn’t scowl, but it’s a close thing.

“You’re not here today,” he points out, because it’s a Thursday and therefore “safe.” Becky waves her hand dismissively.

“You need more help than I thought so I freed up my time. I talked to Wilson about it yesterday.”

Demetrius looks at Wilson, who coughs into his fist and mutters something about overseeing the envelope stuffing before he scuttles away. Then he looks back at Becky.

It is the first time they have spoken since she first started and he notices that she still looks at him as if he’s a disappointment somehow, and a strange feeling pulses in his chest. It’s a hot, mixed emotion, parts frustration and irritation and impatience, and it makes his voice take on an edge it has never had before.

“We don’t need this,” he repeats flatly. “The old coffee machine needs to be brought back.”

“The old coffee machine was terrible and you know it,” Becky states without apology. “The coffee was awful and burnt and no one liked it, and if you think I was going to choke down another cup of that swill, then think again. This—” she gestures to the towering machine and the accompanying porcelain cups, “—is a top-of-the-line espresso machine! It steams milk, too, so we can have lattes and cappuccinos whenever we want. Plus, it shows you care, so—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupts, hating the way her words assault him as she just. Keeps. Talking. “We don’t need it. Take it back.”

Becky firms up her chin and her hands go to her hips. She looks him in the eye and he can see the snap and fire in hers, and it just makes him dislike her more.

Which he did not think was possible, but every day is a new surprise, it seems.

“I’m not taking it back. How can you expect people to work when they’re tired? And another thing: would it kill you to offer snacks? Breakfast? Everyone here is doing so much for you! Why not give them something in return?”

Demetrius feels a headache forming and it’s barely nine am. At this rate he will choke on his indignation by lunchtime.

“Snacks?” he repeats icily, hoping to freeze her out with his disdain. “This is a campaign, not a daycare.”

“And yet, you’re acting like a child,” she snaps, and Demetrius swears he hears a choked-off snicker from somewhere among the desks. Belatedly, he realizes their discussion – because it is NOT an argument, he would not deign to argue with a wisp of a girl like her – can be heard throughout the entire office space, and is making him look bad.

She is making him look bad.

He narrows his eyes and tries to retreat behind his usual uncaring expression, but it is difficult. He is not normally competitive except in academics, but for some reason, backing down now sticks in his throat like bitter gall.

“Do you even know how to work this thing?” he pivots the conversation in the hopes of stymieing her, but the plan fails. Becky smiles brightly as she scents her victory in the air.

“Oh, I don’t, but Blake does.”

Demetrius blinks twice, confusion interrupting his anger for just a moment.

“Who is Blake?”

Just then the office door creaks open and a young man with a blue hat on pops his head in. Everyone turns to look at him, and when he runs a hand through his short hair nervously, Demetrius realizes with a shock that what he thought was a hat is actually the boys’ hair, just colored like a blueberry. He also has a nose ring, forearm tattoos, and carries a red apron in his hand, and Demetrius has no idea what he’s even looking at.

“Um, hi?” the young man queries. “Is a Miss Blackbell here? I was told to start work as a barista today?”

“Right over here, Blake!” Becky calls out with a wave. “Just in time. I could really use a vanilla latte...”

Demetrius returns to his desk and tries not to pay attention to anything except the work in front of him. He tells himself that it is not giving up or giving in, it is moving on from a conversation that is not worth his time.

He starts to edit the proposed speech on his desk with pronounced viciousness. He isn’t bothered by the way Becky accepts the gratitude of the other workers or the way she starts telling the boy what syrups and supplies to order (on her dalc, she is quick to announce at Demetrius’ back), no, he isn’t bothered by it at all. It is all just noise, as usual, and he can tune it – tune her – out with no problem.

This changes nothing. It is still his campaign.

“Um, hazelnut half-caff soy macchiato for Wilson?” Blake calls out, and Demetrius grips his red pen so hard it almost draws blood.

He returns to the office later that day in a strange mood. Not that he shows it outwardly. Maintaining a calm outward demeanor no matter what setbacks occur is a lesson the PR flunkies did not need to spend much time teaching him, because his face has more or less held one expression since elementary school. When he’s in front of cameras he gives his polite, public smile and makes sure to crinkle the corners of his eyes because he’s been told that promotes “a sense of friendliness and engagement” (whatever that means), but today it was all exceedingly difficult to do. There is a feeling of anxiety in his gut that won’t go away. Even as he gave his latest speech to the small crowd of supporters and accepted their applause, his eyes kept glancing to the clock on the wall as the minutes ticked by. He could not tell if he was looking forward to going back to the campaign office, or dreading it.

He steps into the office, sees that it is empty, and the dread feeling goes away in an instant. But on its heels comes a vague sense of... disappointment? No one is usually around at this time of the day, anyway, so what did he expect? It is very odd.

His strange mood does not dissipate even as he jots down some notes on how his speech went over (lukewarm at best) and what points seemed to get even a smattering of enthusiasm. He is more than usually tired and his heart feels heavy in his chest. He guesses it is the lack of his typical caffeine intake that makes his brain feel dull and his emotions raw.

And they are slightly – well, more than slightly – raw. He had been confident in this speech, and yet...

He had his speech-writers go over it at least five times and he listened to all their edits and it still wasn’t enough. What more must he do?

He doesn’t understand.

His eyes drift back to the espresso machine. He looks away resolutely, but the way his lids burn with tiredness makes it hard to concentrate...

Earlier, when everyone else had been lining up to get their coffees and Americanos and improbably complicated drink orders, Demetrius had stayed away out of sheer principle. The loud screech of milk steaming and the delicious aroma of coffee beans had wafted around his head, but he had gritted his teeth and refused to even look back over his shoulder towards the coffee station where Blake was – admittedly impressively – whipping up concoctions and cheerfully talking with anyone who approached. He couldn’t help but notice that everyone seemed to be in a more energetic mood, too, and for the first time since the beginning days of his campaign the office had hummed with productivity.

Not that he could ever admit to noticing, but oh, he knew Becky did, and the few times he had happened to look her way he had seen the downright smug look on her face as she sipped her drink and worked at her desk.

She was laughing at him, he just knows it.

Now, though, he is alone, and the espresso machine gleams in the harsh office lighting like a beacon against the oncoming dusk...

No, he tells himself angrily. No, no, no.

He doesn’t even know how to work the thing.

But if Blake can do it, it shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out...

NO.

Demetrius stands and feels his eyelid twitch with a mixture of his usual exhaustion and a fresh wave of irritation at the machine and – by extension – the person who forced it into his life.

He can’t get rid of Becky, perhaps, but he’ll be damned if the machine stays one more day.

His steps are resolute as he marches over to it. He is vaguely aware that his actions aren’t making any sense, but he’ll chalk it up to stress if asked. He reaches out to grip the cursed thing by the nozzles then falters as he realizes how heavy it is. But no matter. He’ll haul it to the dumpster out back, or else put it in the nearest river, or take it to a slum and sell it for scrap, whatever he has to do so it is gone.

He is so preoccupied with thoughts of vengeance by proxy that he doesn’t hear the office door open until it is too late, and then he freezes and turns around.

Becky is standing there, of course, because that is the sort of day he is having. She’s looking at him as if he’s lost all his reason – which is fair – and her gold-colored clutch purse is held at waist level as she pauses in the act of rifling through it.

They stare at each other, Demetrius hunched over the espresso machine like a mad scientist about to throttle his creation and Becky clearly taken aback by catching him in the act. It takes him a moment to notice that she’s dressed differently than earlier that day, but when he does, his stomach clenches.

She is wearing a knee length cocktail dress in a deep orange shade that should look garish, but doesn’t. Like all of her outfits it seems as if it was designed for her and her alone, the color bringing out the peach in her complexion and the neckline with its single shoulder of fabric highlighting the delicate curve of her bust. Her hair falls around her shoulders in a smooth curtain and her lips – bow-shaped, he realizes distantly, and a pretty cherry-pink – purse in confusion.

A gold bomb hairclip rests at her temple and diamonds glimmer delicately at her ears, throat, and wrist. She would not look out of place on the arm of a prince...

...or a politician, he thinks, and then is immediately horrified.

“Um,” she begins, and breaks him out of his incredibly disturbing train of thought. “What are you doing?”

He straightens and tries not to let his erratic heartbeat distract him. He can’t tell her the truth, of course, but the lie he comes up with instead is, somehow, even worse.

“I wanted a drink,” he intones, and regrets it before the words are out of his mouth.

Becky smiles, a slow, cheshire-cat grin that radiates triumph and makes her eyes sparkle impishly.

“Oh, is that so?” she preens as she approaches the back of the office where he stands. The heels she is wearing make her hips sway as she walks (but he doesn’t notice that, of course).

“No,” he desperately attempts to thwart her gloating, but it is too late. “I lied.”

“Uh-huh.” Becky stops in front of him and he knows she wants to point her finger in his face and laugh, but she doesn’t. A small kindness, that. “Just like you lied to Wilson that you weren’t tired, even though you yawned every other minute this morning?”

He pauses. She had noticed that?

“Why can’t you just admit you want a coffee?” she continues and regards him with a mixture of confusion and frustration. “It doesn’t kill you to be honest, you know.”

“I’m always honest.” He straightens his spine and throws his shoulders back, looking down at her with what he hopes is a quelling expression. It doesn’t work.

Becky rolls her eyes. “You’re having issues with the voters because you aren’t. People are supposed to believe in the honesty of their candidate, but if you can’t even tell the truth about something this small, why should they believe you when you talk about things that really matter?”

She breezes past him towards her desk and Demetrius stands stock-still. If she had walked up and slapped him in the face then he would feel less surprise.

“What?” He turns to her, but she barely looks up as she opens a desk drawer and starts to look through it. “What did you say?”

“I just said what I’ve noticed.” She sounds vaguely apologetic, but if she thinks she can just insult him like that and then back off...

“Which is?” His arms are held stiffly at his sides and his palms are bathed in a cold sweat, but he won’t let her see that.

Becky finally meets his gaze and he sees pity and understanding there. “That you don’t care and you don’t want to do this. Any of this. At all. That’s why you’re behind in the polls and losing. People can tell, you know.”

If she had taken a knife and stabbed him in the heart, it would have hurt less.

All his life he’s been told to do what he is doing now: run for office, play the game, do the expected life path of the eldest Desmond son and cut through the waters of Ostanian politics with ease. Never mind that he’s more comfortable in a library than in front of a crowd, or that he doesn’t understand people, or that every time he comes up with a perfectly logical policy and sees it get shredded by advisors or commentators it feels like someone is totaling up all of his faults; none of that matters because he HAS to do this. Father has always made that extremely clear, so he learned to get used to the idea years and years ago. It is second nature now to shove down every bit of himself that does not like it, because what is the point? He is Demetrius Desmond, future Prime Minister, and that’s who he has been ever since he first took a breath.

He's never been able to be anything else. This is his purpose and his birth right, and every bit of training he has ever received has been molding him for it. He doesn’t know who he is if he isn’t a politician.

And now this girl is telling him it’s all no use?

A strange emotion curls up his spine and sends fire pulsing through his brain, pushing down all of his attempts to control it as it roars through him. It is a red-hot rage unlike anything he’s ever felt before, and it centers on Becky, because she’s standing there looking beautiful and sad for him as if he’s a creature to be pitied, and he can’t take that look from her, not at all.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” he snarls as his hands ball into fists. “I’ve worked day and night for this campaign. Do you think I’d do that if I didn’t care?”

“I think you care what your father thinks,” she points out, either oblivious to or uncaring of the turmoil she’s causing him with every word. “Damian was the same way, you know. It took him years to become his own person.”

“So now you think I’m not a person?” he snaps. Becky shakes her head.

“No, you are, and that’s why it’s hard to watch you sometimes.”

“If that’s the case, then why don’t you leave?” he snarls again, not caring that he sounds petulant. If she goes then she’ll never talk to him again, but God, she’s done enough damage already so it barely matters. “You don’t have to come back if I’m so hard to be around.”

Becky finally hunts down the small mirror she’s apparently been looking for and drops it into her purse. She’s still calm but an irritated expression crosses her face.

“Well, I would, but I promised Damian—”

“I’ll talk to Damian,” he interrupts. Oh, he’ll have words with his brother, all right.

“—and, you know what? I want to help you.”

This time Demetrius does let out a snort. Becky glares at him.

“I’m telling the truth! You’re the only candidate whose policies actually make sense. Everyone else talks about big ideals and dodges the pointed questions, but you face them head on and have everything planned out to the smallest detail. It’s refreshing, even though you do sound like a lecturer when you talk about your initiatives.”

She crosses her arms and holds his gaze, seemingly unaware that she’s thrown him for a loop for the second time in five minutes.

“I believe in you,” she states simply. “But until you fix how you’re perceived you’ll never have even a fighting chance.”

Demetrius stays silent, but unlike his usual silences where he doesn’t care enough to respond, this time it is because he simply does not know what to say. His emotions – so strangely near the surface where Becky is concerned – war between pleased disbelief that she genuinely supports him and shocked indignation at the truths she is telling him.

He’s aware that he does not connect with people on a fundamental level, but he had thought – hoped – that being the candidate with the better policies was enough to see him through.

Clearly, he was mistaken. He recalls the tepid response to his speech earlier that day and it is as if a highlight reel of all his failures starts to play behind his eyes. Every reluctant endorsement, every lukewarm reception, every moment where it was clear his supporters were there in body but not in spirit, washes over him and give proof to what Becky is saying.

He’s not likable, maybe he never will be, and for a stupid, insignificant reason like that he’ll never be anything at all.

Suddenly, he feels very drained and tired, but this time it is not just physical. The futileness of his situation hits him all at once and more effectively than the starkest poll results ever could, and it’s all because of Becky and her unerring way of destroying every hard-earned bit of equilibrium he’s ever had.

He can’t even dredge up the energy to dislike her anymore. He just wishes she would go.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asks in a dull voice, not even caring that he’s dodging her remarks like a coward. She frowns at his response – did she hope he’d be willing to go another round with her? – then glances down at herself in a rare display of self-consciousness.

“Oh, yes, Tony and I are going to Madera’s.”

Something sparks in the ashy landscape of Demetrius’ emotions.

“Tony?”

“Yes... my boyfriend.”

He suddenly has a headache, but it is the strangest headache he’s ever had. Instead of a pounding in his temple or a pain behind his eyes, this headache seems to be centered in his chest, and he suddenly finds it difficult to breathe.

“Ah.”

A silence falls, the aftermath of heated words exchanged with nothing more to say, so Becky fidgets and looks strangely embarrassed as she starts to walk back around her desk.

“I have some ideas that I think could help you, if you’re interested. Can we talk about them tomorrow?”

She looks at him with trepidation. Demetrius remembers how he told her to leave and never come back just a minute before, but it seems she’s chosen to ignore that just like she ignores everything else about him and what he wants.

He says nothing but nods, just the barest incline of his head, because everything is hopeless anyway so why bother fighting it? He’s just keeping her from her nice evening at this point.

“Well... good night, then.”

She starts to walk her way up the aisle and he returns to his own desk feeling vulnerable and exhausted and downcast in a way he’s never felt before. The strange headache in his chest is now a dull, persistent ache, and he can’t help but glance up at Becky as she walks out the door with a final swish of skirt and a slight blush on her cheek.

Chapter Text

It turns out Becky’s ideas involve... shopping.

“Appearances matter,” she tells him authoritatively as they stand in Berlint’s premier male boutique, “and we need to work on yours.”

Unlike a department store where anyone can walk in and out, this establishment takes only reservations and prides itself on exclusivity, the opaque windows at front and the intercom beside the gold-embossed doorway proclaiming that you must Be Someone to come inside.

He knows this place, of course. He gets his pocket squares here, though he’s never actually visited. His father’s valet takes care of actually procuring his clothes, and he’s never bothered with paying much attention to what he wears.

Which, according to Becky, is a problem.

“You dress just like an old man,” she told him in the car ride over. “And you’re not some seventy-year-old man, you’re young. New blood. We need to bring that to the forefront so you stand out.”

“And clothes will do that?” he had asked with skepticism. Becky had looked at him as if he were a simpleton.

“Of course, they will. Trust me.”

He still doesn’t understand any of it, but he supposes if he can trust her about anything, it is fashion.

There is a strange sort of truce between them now, as if the harsh back-and-forth of the night before never happened. Certainly, Demetrius wishes to never think about it again, and Becky has been less caustic towards him than usual, which he guesses is an apology of sorts. He’s still not completely fine with what she said – can anyone be, after being told their life’s ambition is hopeless from the start? – but she still seems willing to help him in his doomed attempts at winning the election, so that speaks for itself.

He wants to ask her how her date went, but he doesn’t dare.

She soon takes their errand in hand with authority, and Demetrius is subjected to a whirlwind of assistants holding up fabric samples and bolts of cloth to his body, testing colors and patterns under Becky’s keen eye. People rush up with shirts, waistcoats, trousers, jackets, socks and ties and belts of all kinds, then hurry away with them as Becky flicks her wrist in rejection while others jot down all of her Must Haves on small notepads before disappearing into the back again. It is all so much for Demetrius to comprehend that he gives up trying, instead standing on the padded stool as directed and making no comments as people measure and pin and adjust while Becky stalks around him like a cat and eyes his outfits with a seriousness normally only seen on high court judges.

“Hold it,” Becky declares and raises her hand, and everyone in the vicinity freezes. “What do you think about this color, Demetrius?”

Demetrius – who had been busy thinking of nothing at all, really – looks at his reflection in the full-length mirror in front of him, and pauses.

The suit he is wearing is a dark moss green color, very different from his usual blue or dark brown or grey. He notices that his eyes seem brighter, and his usually pasty complexion seems somehow healthier all around. Metal pins shine at the cuffs and trouser hem, but the way they hold the fabric in place is a different fit than he’s used to and makes his shoulders look broader and his arms and legs more defined.

He blinks twice, unsure of what exactly he’s seeing, and Becky reaches up to adjust his lapel where it rests on his chest.

“Do you like the cut? It’s more fashionable to have tighter clothing for men these days, but if you don’t like it...”

“It’s fine,” he says, because it is. The suits his father wears are always tailored to hide the body in the box-like silhouette of prior decades, but he finds that he does not mind the way these clothes look and feel at all.

“And the color?”

“It’s fine,” he repeats, still looking at himself with slight puzzlement. Were his eyes always such a startling shade of gold?

“A ringing endorsement, I guess,” Becky huffs, and motions for the assistants to continue their work.

After a few hours Becky has gotten him to try on a dozen different suits, more casual wear, and even a few outfits for formal events. Demetrius is flagging by the end of it. He’s not used to so much activity even on busy campaign days, but Becky seems to only get more energy as the day goes on instead of less. Most of the suits and other clothing items will have to be tailored to his measurements and won’t be ready until later on in the week, but Becky was able to get the moss green suit put on rush order to be delivered to him that night.

“Just in time for tomorrow’s debate,” she says triumphantly. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at the reception you get when you step on stage wearing it.”

They are back in the car and the trunk is overflowing with boxes and bags of all kinds, accessories that don’t need tailoring which he can start wearing right away, though Lord knows why she was so insistent on him getting new socks. He doesn’t quail at the price or any such thing, but he does wonder if literally every part of his appearance failed to pass muster with her before today.

“I doubt it,” he responds, but a part of him can’t help but remember how much more... good-looking the suit makes him seem. He’s never been good-looking before. Passable, yes. Adequately groomed, of course. But good-looking?

Becky makes a face at him. “Just you wait. The new suit and hair style will work wonders!”

He turns to look at her from where he was staring out the car window.

“Hair style? What’s wrong with my hair?” He does not reach up to touch the thick mane that he always wears slicked back (it sticks up and is impossible to deal with otherwise), but he suddenly wonders if that’s been a misstep all this time, too.

Becky laughs in polite disbelief, but when she sees that he is serious, her smile grows wide and excited.

“Ohhhh,” she breathes, and Demetrius wonders just what she has in store. “This is going to be so much fun.”

Their next stop is another high-end establishment, this time at the flagship location for an ultra-trendy hair stylist who caters to the stars. People rave about his talents and bemoan the difficulty of getting an appointment in the same breath whenever he is mentioned, but it seems to Becky that things like a months’ long waiting list is a problem for other people. She breezes into the reception area as if the salon is a second home and the girl behind the counter looks up with a true smile of welcome.

Then her eyes travel to Demetrius and her brow quirks curiously, but the question never leaves her lips even as she chatters with Becky and adjusts some appointments to make an open slot.

Demetrius looks around. His father’s barber takes care of his trims and shaves on the same days that he visits Donovan, so Demetrius has never been to a salon before. The décor seems to be a strange mix of discotheque gaudiness and subtle refinement, with random marble columns and huge vases of roses standing next to pieces of pop art and neon lights on the wall in bright, unusual colors. He supposes this is what “trendy” looks like, but to him, it all just seems nonsensical.

Then he is whisked to a stylists’ chair and a bright turquoise nylon cape is secured around his front, effectively pinning him in place as Becky stands nearby with an eager gleam in her eye.

“Marcel is a miracle worker,” she states proudly and clasps her hands in front of her chest as if she can’t contain herself. Demetrius doesn’t know if he likes being thought of as needing a miracle, but he doesn’t have time to comment.

“Ah, Miss Becky!” a vaguely-accented voice proclaims, and the person who had been settling Demetrius in the chair actually bows meekly as they back away. “A pleasure!”

Marcel does not look like a miracle worker to Demetrius. To him, he seems to be a portly man in his mid-forties with a strange grey moustache, a bald head, and green-tinted sunglasses perched low on his nose, but Becky squeals in true delight as they swoop kisses to the air above each other’s cheeks.

“You’re looking amazing as always, Marcel!” she gushes. Demetrius wonders if lying is the standard greeting between them or if she’s just being polite for today. “Thank you so much for seeing us on such short notice. I have desperate need of your help!”

Marcel glances at Demetrius in the mirror and actually gasps in shock.

“You certainly do! My, this will be a challenge.”

Demetrius tries not to feel insulted, fails, and frowns at Becky in the mirror.

“Is this really necessary?” he asks her, because Marcel is not someone he wants to talk to if he can possibly help it. Both of them nod resolutely.

“Absolutely,” she answers, and Demetrius exhales through his nose. Best to just get this over with, he supposes. How long can a haircut take?

But it turns out Marcel does not do “haircuts.” Marcel specializes in experiences.

First is a deep cleaning at a wash basin to get all of the existing hair product out. Marcel rakes his surprisingly strong fingers through Demetrius’ locks while tutting disapprovingly all the while. The water is just the right temperature and the shampoo and conditioner smell nice, so Demetrius allows himself to relax a bit as the gel he shellacked onto his head just that morning rinses down the drain. When he sits up again his head feels lighter, and after Marcel gives his hair a few passes with a fluffy towel, it springs around his ears in its usual waves.

Becky – who has been standing off to the side this entire time – gives a scandalized gasp.

“Your hair is wavy!” she accuses while she looks at him. Demetrius nods, though he’s not sure why she looks so upset.

“Why do you gel it down like a helmet?” she demands. He shrugs.

“It’s easier to deal with that way.”

Which is true. Back at Eden it was easier to comb it back and hold it in place with product instead of worrying about it, and because he always waited so long between haircuts, it would be down past his ears before he knew it and totally unmanageable otherwise. He and Damian have inherited their mother’s hair – thick, wavy, and soft – but hell if he knows what to do with it, so he’s just kept doing what he always does and moves on with his day.

Becky is shaking her head in disbelief.

“You’re such a jerk. Do you know how many girls would kill for your hair?” she rubs the ends of her locks idly, but Demetrius doesn’t see a problem: her hair is beautiful, probably feels fantastic, and from the small whiffs he’s caught when she’s close, smells divine.

He jerks his thoughts back to the present when another assistant offers him a glass of sparkling... something... which he declines, and then it’s back to the chair for more miracle working.

The time passes pleasantly enough. Marcel and Becky seem to not need or want his input at all which suits him just fine, and he lets his mind go blank as they consult each other behind his chair. Marcel’s scissors and comb dart around his head, and as he works, Demetrius keeps getting offered things by a parade of assistants as they come by the workstation. He denies them all. He doesn’t want a hand massage, or a hot towel for his face, or gourmet snacks, or water, wine, or juice, and he supposes he's also denying himself the full “experience” but he can’t help it: despite Becky’s insistence that all of this is necessary, it all still seems rather silly.

But then Marcel announces “Voila!” and Demetrius looks at himself in the mirror, and for the second time that day, he’s taken aback by what he sees.

He looks... different. But also, not. It’s still his face and hair, but his locks have been parted in the middle and then swept back while still letting them fall free around his ears, the thickness and volume brought to the forefront with a layered trim and a light application of product. He’s never had his hair be so free except immediately after a shower, and he actually gives his head a slight shake to watch as it shifts and resettles in effortless looking waves. It looks just this side of messy and he can already imagine his parents’ disapproving frowns, but strangely, that doesn’t matter to him like it should. Something about the style makes his jawline look fuller and his expression more open, which is strange but not unwelcome, and most interestingly, his eyes look less harsh as well.

He's never considered himself to be someone who cares about appearances, but if he’s being honest, there has always been a part of himself that does wonder how others see him. It’s the part that makes him leave a small lock of hair free at this temple to try and soften the lines of his face, the part that always made his eyes linger over the casual style and confidence of other men, the part that thought maybe, if he ever had the time, energy, and guidance, he could look— look—

Well, he’s never been exactly sure, but definitely look like more than he is.

Now, as he sits in the salon chair and gazes at his reflection, he feels that part of himself settle into satisfaction he did not realize he was capable of feeling. It doesn’t feel like he’s even looking at himself, but while the way his appearance on the campaign posters made him feel like a fraud, now he wonders if he’s actually just seeing himself for the first time.

“Oh, Marcel!” Becky gushes and claps her hands together with breathless wonder. “You’ve done it again!”

Marcel preens under her praise and puts his tools on a silver tray held out for him by yet another assistant. He and Becky chat for a moment but her eyes keep darting to Demetrius’ in the mirror.

“What do you think?” she asks him, finally, and he can only tell the truth.

“I like it.” And he does, but more to the point, in this moment he likes himself.

“Of course, he does!” Marcel exclaims, and the entire salon bursts into sycophantic applause.

Later, after they’ve paid the exorbitant bill and bought some of the hair product for Demetrius to use at home, Becky turns to Demetrius with a hesitant expression.

“Do you really, really like it?” she seems surprisingly nervous, and Demetrius looks away from his reflection in the car window with a slightly raised eyebrow.

“If I said no, could I get my money back?”

Becky huffs. “Cheapskate. What is it with you Desmond men? But no, I meant...” she worries her lower lip as she gazes at him intensely. “Let me just...”

She trails off again, and he’s just about to ask her what she wants when she leans towards him and raises her hand to his face.

He stills, suddenly very aware of the close confines of the car and the way his pulse beats harder under his skin. Becky is not looking directly into his eyes but her gaze is still on his face, and she slightly bites her lower lip as she concentrates on something at this hairline. This close he can see the way her eyelashes are dark and full as they frame her pretty eyes, which are wide and colored a rich brown in the fading light.

Demetrius stifles a swallow as she leans closer, and for one breathless, terrifying, exciting moment, he thinks she’s going to kiss him.

But, no. She stops well away from him and her hand goes to his temple, and he has a moment of pure shock as her nail grazes his scalp. She hooks her finger around a lock of hair and pulls it forward, and when the hair falls free, she sits back with a look of triumph.

“Aha! That’s what was missing,” she announces, and Demetrius tries to get the heat that flared to life at her touch back under control.

“What...?” he manages, and Becky grabs her mirror from her handbag and shows him.

The lock of hair that he habitually lets free is back, but this time it rests against his face and gives him almost a rakish air. Almost. He doesn’t have the bone structure required for rakishness, but he at least looks more debonair and approachable than when his face is fully uncovered. He has to admit that seeing that small lock of hair soothes some of his agitation, as if he had secretly been worried about losing too much of himself during today’s unexpected transformations. Maybe someday he’ll be comfortable enough to go completely without it, but for now...

He smiles as he looks at himself, a small thing, but it happens, and without him knowing it. He hears Becky suck in a startled breath next to him and he turns to her.

“Thank you,” he tells her with genuine gratitude as he hands back the mirror. “For everything,” he adds, because he’s not boorish enough to deny all of her efforts today or their results.

She gapes at him for a moment, and then she takes the mirror and puts it back in her purse with a slight flush.

“Of course! Never tell Marcel I messed with one of his creations, though. I’ll be banned for life.”

“The secret is safe with me,” he promises, jokingly even.

There’s a lightness in his mood that he’s not at all used to, and he can’t quite decipher why it’s there even though there is a mountain of neglected tasks waiting for him back at headquarters. The atmosphere in the car is nice and friendly, and he isn’t looking forward to the conversation ending. Becky doesn’t look at him with disappointment anymore, either, and in fact she seems very pleased with him overall.

The words tumble out of him before he can think.

“Shall we get dinner?”

Becky looks at him, startled, and then her flush deepens. Demetrius immediately knows he’s put his foot into it. He’s not the type to even buy donuts for his campaign workers, and now he’s inviting one to an afterhours meal, just the two of them? What must she think? Probably nothing good, but does she have to look so... uncomfortable with the very thought? Does she have to fidget so much as she sits there?

He gets the message, so he backtracks with as much dignity as he can.

“As repayment for all you’ve done today,” he continues, valiantly ignoring the embarrassment currently gnawing at him. “Something quick, if you’re in a hurry.”

Becky relaxes slightly but her face still looks a little red.

“I’d love to, but, er, I have plans.” She looks away shiftily and plays with the strap of her purse.

It’s an excuse, and the thinnest, vaguest one he’s ever heard. He’s gone on enough dates to have some experience with being put off, but even then, they at least offered some plausible reason why they couldn’t engage with the honor of his company for an evening. And this wouldn’t be a date, even! (Would it? No.) All well-bred, high society ladies have a cache of ready excuses for situations like this, ones that soften the blow just enough to leave the man with his pride, but Becky, it seems, doesn’t even have the manners for that.

She’s rejecting even the very idea of him, plain and simple, and he doesn’t know what else he was expecting.

His expression closes off again as he lets the insult cool the fire of his humiliation. He nods.

“Well—”

“I really do have plans!” she insists and leans forward again, somewhat to his surprise. She seems suddenly on edge, as if she is afraid that he doesn’t believe her. “It’s just... Tony is waiting for me, so...”

Tony.

Of course. Her boyfriend.

He hadn’t forgotten, but somehow during the course of their outings today the knowledge had slipped behind all the ups and downs of his mood into a place of unimportance. But it is important, and he shouldn’t let himself forget it. Ever.

Becky doesn’t have excuses because she doesn’t need them. She isn’t free in the first place.

“It’s fine,” he tells her, but his voice sounds distant even to him. Becky looks uncomfortable again, and all the casual atmosphere of earlier seems to have dissipated.

Then the car turns the corner to the campaign headquarters. Becky looks out the windshield, gasps, and goes slightly pale.

Demetrius frowns and follows her line of sight but he can’t see anything amiss. People are walking in front of the building as normal, and a young man lounges against the sidewalk guardrail, and a stray cat is—

Wait.

His eyes move back to the younger man who is no longer lounging but has straightened up as the car approaches, and as it comes to a stop, Becky leaps out before either Demetrius or the driver can open the door for her. She rushes around the car and up onto the sidewalk, and Demetrius allows himself to watch her interaction with the man for a moment before the driver opens his own door and he steps from the car himself.

The young man – Tony, it must be – is all smiles on his handsome, chiseled face. White teeth stand out against his tanned skin, and his muscled arms are crossed over his broad chest as he looks down in puzzlement from his superior height at Becky, who seems agitated as she talks to him in a low, hurried whisper.

“—told you to pick me up at home!” she finishes indignantly, but he just grins wider.

“Sorry, babe, must have forgot.” He shrugs as if her bad mood means nothing to him, and then he looks up and sees Demetrius watching them. “Oh, hi!” Tony uncrosses his arms and steps around Becky with his hand outstretched. “You’re Demetrius, right? I’m Tony.”

Demetrius shakes his hand and feels the firmness of his grip for just a moment before he is released. Tony is taller than him by a few inches and up-close Demetrius can see he is mostly muscle, vacuous smiles, and benign obliviousness. His surprise that this is Becky’s chosen partner is quickly hidden, though Becky still looks extremely nervous as Demetrius gives his politician’s smile.

“It’s nice to meet you, Tony,” he offers, even though it’s really not nice at all. He doesn’t have a follow-up and the silence stretches a moment, but Tony seems... strangely unaffected.

“Yeah, I always wanted to meet the guy that’s been working my girl so hard,” he laughs good-naturedly and loops an arm around Becky’s shoulders. Becky clears her throat.

“It’s not like that. I enjoy working here.” She darts an exasperated look up at him. “I told you.”

Tony laughs as if she’s said something amusing and Becky looks even more exasperated.

... Interesting. Demetrius has never wanted to be drawn into conversation in his life, but right now, he’s itching to know more about what’s playing out in front of him.

“So, Tony, do you go to University of Berlint?” he asks politely, and Becky’s jaw drops at seeing him take the initiative with another person. Tony, oblivious, shakes his head with a laugh.

“Nah, bro, I go to University of Freiberg.” He makes a back-and-forth motion with the hand not currently resting on Becky’s shoulder as if she’s a piece of furniture. “Berlint U is too.... ugh, you know?”

Demetrius thinks he knows. The University of Freiberg is a well-established institute of higher education but it is more known for its “vibrant student life” than its academics. Its standards for admission are also nowhere near as high as the University of Berlint, and the more he talks to Tony, the more he can see why it was his school of choice.

But perhaps he is being unfair, he thinks, even as a smug sense of satisfaction settles in his chest. Maybe Tony is smart in other areas!

“I suppose I do,” he agrees with a slight incline of his head. “Freiberg has an active student political scene, I believe. Are you interested in politics?”

Tony laughs in earnest. “Ah, nah, all that political stuff is too much for me. Whenever they all start talking about this issue or that, I zone out.”

He smiles at Demetrius as if he – a politician himself – would understand the struggle to find politics interesting. Becky squirms but Demetrius feels even more delighted. For the first time since he’s met Becky, he feels he has some sort of upper hand on her. It’s wonderful.

“Hmm, well, I hope I can count on your vote, anyway,” Demetrius chuckles dryly, and Tony nods.

“For sure! If I vote, I mean. Anyway!” He brightens and jostles Becky’s shoulder. “We gotta go. This chick loves her fancy-schmancy restaurants and they do NOT like you being late!” He shakes his head uncomprehendingly.

“And where are you two heading?” Demetrius can’t help but ask. Something about the way Becky seems mortified by Tony’s existence and the way Tony is oblivious to it is doing wonders for his mood, and the longer the conversation goes on, the more he enjoys himself.

“Oh, we’re going to... uh...” Tony tries to remember. It seems to take some effort.

“L'Entrecôte,” Becky grits out, raising her eyes to Demetrius as if in challenge. Demetrius lets a smile play around his mouth.

“They have fine wine and good spirits there,” he observes, and Tony throws back his head and laughs so loudly, it startles Becky and Demetrius both.

“Oh, dude, you believe in ghosts?” Tony exclaims in delight. “Ooooh, good spirits, ooooh...” He waves his fingers in a spooky fashion with a smirk on his face.

Becky looks like she wants to sink through the pavement. Demetrius practically beams. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but so far, Tony has exceeded all of his expectations.

“Well, I’m going to bring the car around,” Tony announces while still chuckling at Demetrius. “See you later, Deme.”

Demetrius can’t even mind the over-familiarity. Tony trots off down the street, whistling and unconcerned, and Becky glares at Demetrius’ smug expression as he goes.

“Don’t,” she hisses.

“Don’t, what?” He looks at her innocently.

“Don’t say it.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything bad about... Tony.” He imbues the name with significance and a slight quirk of his eyebrow. “He seems very... upbeat. Like a golden retriever.”

Becky practically growls but she doesn’t deny it, a reaction (or lack thereof) which Demetrius finds even more interesting.

“He’s... he’s really nice!” she exclaims and then cringes. “He is!”

“Hmm, I’m sure he is.” Demetrius responds with only slight patronization in his tone. Becky sputters.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop... smirking like that!” Becky balls her fists. “Tony is... is... he’s really nice! And... smart!”

Demetrius lets her assertion hang in the air as he looks at her steadily, and a hot blush crawls up Becky’s face.

“Well, he’s nice,” she mutters in defeat, and then scrubs her face with her hand. “And... anyway, just... argh! I’ll see you tomorrow!”

She stomps off quickly, and even though she’s rushing to the arms of her boyfriend, Demetrius can’t find it in himself to mind. He might not understand people, but it doesn’t take a genius like him to see that whatever pull Becky feels toward her boyfriend is wearing thin fast, a discovery that he finds both highly amusing and perfectly understandable.

After all, what could a girl like Becky – who is smart, imminently capable, and could have anyone – see in a guy like Tony long term? He can allow that all brawn and no brains might have a certain... earthy appeal... but someone like Becky with her quick wit and keen understanding needs someone with more... more...

Genius.

Demetrius understands that, for sure.

His eyes sparkle without realizing it as he ascends the stairs to the campaign headquarters. Far from being tired he is now full of energy, and his good mood has returned tenfold.

He sees that Blake is still in the office and doing his final inventory count of the day, and such is his emotional high that Demetrius actually greets him. Blake looks up, startled.

“Uh, hi, Mr. Desmond?”

“A double shot before you go, Blake,” Demetrius requests as he drops his suit jacket over the back of his chair. His mind is turning with ideas, the points for tomorrow’s debate, and the way the sun backlit Becky as she leaned towards him in the car. “I’ve got work to do.”

Chapter Text

When Demetrius returns to the campaign office the next evening after the debate, he feels more confident than he has in a very, very long time.

He would like to say it is all solely based on the way he spoke at the debate, but he cannot lie to himself. He spoke the same as he always has and used the same gestures and pauses for effect, but there is no denying that the reactions he got were different this time around, if only slightly. His straining ears had been able to hear the undercurrent of genuine enthusiasm in the applause and when he had let his eyes roam over the crowd, he had seen heads bobbing in agreement, curious and engaged expressions, and even a tentative smile or two. For the first time since he began his campaign it feels like he’s truly being seen and heard, and he knows that he has Becky to thank for it.

It seems ridiculous, even insulting, that all it took to engage the voters was a different suit and a lighter touch with the hair gel, but the results are undeniable, even to him.

He still has a long way to go, of course. You don’t go from dead last to the top dog just because you update your wardrobe, but there is still time to turn things around, and it’s a start.

Demetrius walks into the office and to his amazement sees that there are people milling about. A handful, but still, just a few days ago it was nearly impossible to find another soul on the floor past four pm. A few of them pause in their work to call out congratulations on his performance at the debate and it is more acknowledgement and encouragement then he’s received from his staff in weeks. He inclines his head and accepts their good nights, and as they pass by him and out the door, he allows himself to feel as if everything isn’t so hopeless after all.

And on the heels of his hope comes a thought, ingrained and automatic, before he can stop it.

Maybe Father will actually have a reason to be proud of me.

Demetrius firms his jaw against the sigh threatening to escape his mouth. This is his moment, and yet, Donovan’s shadow looms over it as always.

He makes his way to his desk, determined to move on from the sudden weight on his shoulders, but as he passes the conference room the low murmur of voices and the shuffling of papers behind the closed door catches his ear. Curious, he opens the door, and Becky and Blake look up from where they’re seated. The large table in front of them is filled with stacks of paper and boxes of envelopes and rows and rows of labels, and they pause in the act of assembling as he stands in the doorway.

For a moment he takes in the scene... no, actually, he looks at Becky. He hasn’t seen her since she left with her empty-headed Adonis the day before, and he had wondered if she was avoiding him in the office for some reason. But it seems it was just a matter of bad timing and not malice, and the knowledge calms a part of him he didn’t know was worried about it.

Becky returns his look and quirks her lips.

“We’re capitalizing on the success of your performance at the debate,” she explains, though he wasn’t asking, even silently. He was just looking at her. “That point you made about housing for veterans really got a reaction, so I had these whipped up and we’re going to get them out in the morning mail.”

She holds up a flyer that quotes the appalling statistics of homelessness among Ostanian veterans and what Demetrius plans to do about it if elected, and somehow, she’s also gotten hold of a photo of him from the debate that was taken mid-spiel, his expression concerned but determined as he looks full of energy and promise.

He’s taken aback by her ingenuity. The debate was just a few hours ago and the evening editions aren’t even out yet, but here she is, working to get ahead of the curve. He’s impressed, but more than that he’s... pleased. She saw the debate and thought he did well. So well, in fact, that she rushed out to help him take advantage of his minor upswell in popularity in whatever way she could.

The corner of his mouth lifts up without him realizing it, and Becky drops her eyes to her hands as they smooth a flyer into thirds.

“You did great, yeah, Mr. Desmond?” Blake pipes up from his seat. He is employed with applying labels to envelopes and his enthusiasm is undimmed even though he already seems to have multiple papercuts on his fingers. “Like, the crowd really responded to you, huh?”

“Yes, Blake, it went well. Thank you.” He feels a strange, benign sort of approval for the young man, maybe because he makes the best cappuccino Demetrius has ever had. “What are you still doing here?”

“Oh, Miss Blackbell said I should help? And she pays me, so...?”

Blake waggles his fingers and winces as one of the cuts opens. Demetrius looks at Becky again and she shrugs.

“I needed help, and I didn’t feel right asking any of the others to stay when they have families at home.”

“Plus, like, I’m getting overtime, you know?” Blake chirps. “And you’re really cool, Mr. Desmond, so I want to, you know, help out more?”

Demetrius knows he is many things before he will ever be “cool,” and heaven knows Blake probably isn’t the best judge of what’s even cool or not, but he takes the compliment anyway.

 He nods and then – after a moment’s hesitation – takes off his suit jacket and throws it on the back of a chair. Becky looks at him in surprise.

“What are you doing?”

Demetrius unbuttons his cuffs and starts to roll them up and out of the way. “Helping.”

He sits down and ignores the voice that hisses this is pointless work, totally beneath him, and that his time would be better served doing something – anything – else. A candidate should not be spending his evening stuffing envelopes, especially if there is no cameraman around to capture him putting on such an everyman display, and Becky seems to know this because she shifts in her seat.

“You don’t have to,” she tells him, and somehow, her agreement with his inner voice just makes him want to prove them both wrong.

“Maybe,” he agrees as he pulls a box of envelopes towards him. “But I want to.”

Blake grins and flashes Demetrius a thumbs up, and Becky hides her smile as she returns to her folding.

They soon settle into an assembly line of sorts, and after a few more papercuts, Demetrius pulls rank and delegates Blake to sealing the stuffed envelopes with a glue stick instead of risking him mixing his blood with the ink of the labels he’s affixing. Demetrius and Becky sit across from each other as they fold and stuff and Blake sits at the head of the table, and for the first time, Demetrius falls into conversation with other people. It is easy with Becky and Blake because they are natural extroverts, but even though they dominate the talk, they still make room for him. It is as if they can sense when he’s been silent for too long, and whenever that happens, one of them will direct a question at him, or they invite him to laugh at a joke, and somehow, it’s not an effort to do either.

Becky, he learns, can quote Blackbell Industries’ quarter earnings and losses going back at least a decade, but at the end of the day, she does not want to take over the company. This surprises him. If anyone could run a multi-billion dalc empire with confidence, finesse, and effortless success, it would be her.

“I wanted to be a singer when I was a kid, but, well,” she grimaces, “it turns out money can’t buy talent.”

Blake (who is in a band, apparently) nods as if this is a universal truth, but the idea of Becky giving up on something important to her is so foreign to Demetrius that he can’t help but argue.

“Did you get vocal coaches? Instructors?”

Becky levels him a tired look.

“Of course, I did. Who do you think told me I can’t buy talent?” Her voice is only slightly bitter. “I didn’t believe them at first and kept pushing for it, but by the time I had put together an album, not even Daddy’s influence could make it successful. Thank God, I was only twelve at the time and we could buy up all the unsold ones before it did more damage to my reputation! They’re still rotting in a warehouse somewhere.”

Demetrius regards her with amazement. Here she is, blithely recounting the destruction of her childhood dream, and to look at her you would think it mattered nothing at all.

“What happened then?” he asks, morbidly curious as to how anyone can bounce back from a failure of that magnitude.

Becky shrugs and finishes stuffing the envelope in front of her before reaching for a new stack.

“I cried a lot, and then got over it.”

Demetrius recalls the one time he earned an eighty-nine percent on a quiz back in his early years at Eden. The attendant shame and disappointment from his father still lurks in the back of his mind to jump out at him at odd moments. He cannot imagine ever just “crying and getting over it,” and rationally he knows his example isn’t even a failure by most peoples’ metrics.

“How?” The question slips out before he’s aware he is even asking it. “How do you just... get over it?”

Blake looks at Becky curiously as well, and she looks at them both with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s not like I was over it by the next day, but what’s the point in dwelling on it? I was young, I tried, but it just wasn’t my destiny. It hurt at the time, but failure is sometimes good for you.”

Demetrius’ eyebrows raise but Blake nods again.

“Yeah, it’s like... toughens your skin, or something?” the younger man adds, and this time Becky nods as if he’s explaining the obvious instead of speaking absolute nonsense. Demetrius shakes his head.

“How can failure be good?” he scoffs. It goes against everything his father ever taught him, for one, and for two it makes no logical sense. Failure is failing, and failing is the worst thing that can happen.

Becky looks at him with almost pity but it is Blake who answers.

“Because, you know, if you keep trying at something that isn’t going to work then all you’re doing is hurting yourself? And sometimes failing is the only way to see that? And failing helps you see your weaknesses and helps you get stronger, right? And, like, if you fail at the one thing then maybe that’s a sign you should try something else?”

For a brief, horrible moment, Demetrius sees the sense in what Blake is saying. A small and long-ignored part of him responds agreeably, but just as quickly he squashes it back down. He refuses to see the rationality of anything Blake says not from personal dislike, but because his pride will not let him listen to life advice from someone who is incapable of speaking in fully declarative sentences.

“It helped me grow,” Becky chimes in, “and now I’m better for it.”

He is about to argue again – really, neither of them is making any sense – but Blake yawns hugely and glances at the clock.

“Is it okay if I head out, Miss Blackbell? I have my other job in the morning, you know?”

Once again, it is not Demetrius who is looked to as the head of the campaign, and he sighs. Becky nods at Blake and smiles.

“Of course, Blake. Thanks for staying. Good night.”

Demetrius nods his own farewell and then Blake is gone, which leaves just him and Becky in the conference room.

Alone.

For a few moments the only sounds are the shuffling of papers and the ticking of the second hand. He chances a look at Becky, but she is keeping her eyes on her task and seems to not be in the mood to talk anymore, which he finds odd. Such a situation would normally be welcome to Demetrius and on any other night he would relish the silence around them. He has never had the compulsion to rush and fill the quiet the way other people do, but this time there is a heaviness in the air between him and Becky that he can’t ignore. He finds himself struggling not to speak, and that is such a strange occurrence it puts him on edge and makes him – almost – want to fidget.

Because the things he wants to say (well, ask) are things like, “How did you and Tony meet?” or “How long have you been dating?” or “Don’t you know you can do better?” which are all highly inappropriate and nothing but invitations to disaster and, most likely, a lawsuit of some kind. He’s never been one to pry or show interest in other peoples’ personal lives, but he can’t seem to help himself in this case.

Becky, it seems, is special.

But even he knows that bringing any of that up is beyond the pale for what is acceptable, so the silence lingers on, grating on his nerves as he folds and stuffs. If he must speak then it’s best that he keeps the talk to neutral subjects, but when he realizes that requires being good at small talk (which he isn’t), he presses his mouth tighter in annoyance. 

Demetrius is nearly thirty years old and yet he can’t think of one thing to say in this situation? Is he really such a puppet that he can’t talk unless he has a cue card or teleprompter at the ready?

Why can’t he just speak for himself?

He stews in misery for a moment more before Becky breaks the silence for them.

“Tony and I broke up,” she announces as if she isn’t sure why she’s even talking.

Demetrius’ mind scrambles with a hundred different follow-ups, but unfortunately, none of them survive the journey from his mind to his mouth.

“Okay,” he responds in a neutral tone, which is totally at odds with how he’s actually feeling. “That’s... too bad.”

It isn’t, at all, but he has enough social know-how not to let on.

Becky looks up at him with puzzlement, but as always, she seems to see right through him. She grins.

“You can laugh, if you want. I know he was totally wrong for me.”

“I’d never pass judgement on you and... Tony,” he deadpans with another significant pause. Becky rolls her eyes.

“Enough.”

“You said I could laugh,” he points out seriously to Becky’s irritation. He actually feels like doing so, too.

“Fine. Get your jokes in now because I’m never dating someone like him again.”

Thank God.

“Since we’re on the subject and I’m allowed to talk about it, what happened? You and Tony seemed happy.”

That is a lie and both of them know it, but Demetrius isn’t about to let the opportunity to take a dig at the newly buried relationship slide. He never claimed to be a nice guy, after all.

Becky makes an expression of long-suffering and she actually holds up a flyer to shield herself from Demetrius’ gaze. She looks adorably flustered and his mouth quirks in amusement she cannot see.

“... he thought ‘good spirits’ were ghosts,” she mutters from behind the paper. “When he said that I thought, ‘I am so much smarter than you,’ and I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

“And how did he take it?”

Becky huffs in aggravation. “He said – and I quote – ‘Bummer,’ and then asked if we could still meet up to fool around.”

Delight rings through Demetrius like a bell, unexpected but very pleasing. If it were appropriate to shake a man’s hand for being a completely moronic scumbag then Demetrius would do so with Tony gladly.

Outwardly, though, he shrugs one shoulder and keeps his voice even.

“Didn’t you say failure was sometimes for the best? Maybe now you know what you actually want in a partner.”

Becky peeks out at him from behind the flyer. Her cheeks are red and her eyes are bright, and for a moment something warm and cautiously admiring seems to bloom in them. It reminds him of the shyly adoring looks he would sometimes get from girls at Eden when he was collecting multiple Stellas in one sweep, though back then he couldn’t understand or reciprocate that sort of emotion at all.

Seeing it here, now, with Becky, takes him completely by surprise, but it is not unwelcome in the least.

“Yeah... maybe I do,” she says simply, and then smiles at him before returning to her work with a happy little hum.

The tension from before is gone now, and Becky takes up the mantle of conversation with her usual effortlessness, but this time, Demetrius makes an effort to participate.

“What are you going to do if you don’t take over your family’s company?”

Becky makes a “hmm” sound as she thinks.

“I don’t know,” she admits with a shrug. “Right now I’m going to school for Art, Fashion, and Literature, but a career?” She purses her lips. “I don’t have to work, but I’d like to, I guess.”

“And what would you like to do?”

“... Edit a fashion magazine?” she responds, though it’s more like a question. “Be an icon?”

“I don’t think that pays much,” he responds with something like sarcasm, though if anyone could be famous just for being themselves then it would be Becky, without a doubt.

Becky tilts her head slightly as she looks at him. “What would you like to do?”

“Right now? Finish all of this.” He gestures to the last stack of flyers. Becky shakes her head slightly.

“No, I mean, if you weren’t doing this campaign... what would you be doing?”

He stills and his eyebrows pull together.

“Is this another attempt to tell me my bid for office is hopeless?”

“No! I’m honestly curious.”

And now, so is Demetrius.

What would he be doing? No one has ever asked him that before and he’s never thought of it himself, but right now it seems like a perfectly valid question.

In the past, when he still had bouts of wondering what his future would hold, he had... well, not dreams exactly, but thoughts. Musings. Ideas of something outside of the well-defined role that was constantly impressed on him by his father. They never took on a solid shape (and wouldn’t have been allowed to happen even if they had), but still, there had been a time in his life when being a politician had seemed like more of an option than a certainty.

He lets his hands still as he casts about for an answer to her question, his eyes drifting to the side as the thoughts unfurl. Becky stays quiet and watches him. A part of him scoffs that he’s considering it so thoroughly, but another part of him – one he thought was long forgotten – stirs to life.

What would he be doing, if he wasn’t expected to be doing all of this? If he wasn’t Demetrius Desmond, future Prime Minister – if he were Demetrius Desmond, prominent nobody, instead – what would his life look like?

A mental wall looms up and his thoughts smash into it. Abruptly, he’s brought back to himself, and he gives himself a firm shake.

“I don’t know,” he says emotionlessly. “It doesn’t matter.”

Becky frowns at his dismissal. “Maybe, but... don’t you ever wonder?”

Not until now, and the prospect of continuing to wonder is not one he wants to indulge in. It’s making him very uncomfortable.

“Everything I’ve ever done as been to get me here, doing this.” He gestures to encompass the room, the campaign office, and his entire life plan in one sweep. “Even when I was at Eden and earning Stellas by the handful, that was just so I would know everything there was to know when I finally became Prime Minister. I’ve never thought of being anything else.”

“Well, what did you like to study when you were in school?” Becky props her face on her hand as she regards him. “You always got top marks in Math and Physics back at Eden.”

He blinks twice. She had been aware of him back then? He had no idea.

“Math and Physics were always my favorite subjects,” he agrees easily. Becky makes a face.

“You should talk to Ewen. He’s a huge nerd when it comes to science.”

His attention snags on the male name. Who’s Ewen?

“Am I supposed to know who that is?”

Becky looks at him in disbelief.

“Ewen Egeburg? One of Damian’s best friends since they were in diapers? I’ve seen him introduce himself to you at least three times.”

Demetrius casts his memory back and vaguely recalls a few instances of a blonde boy with tall hair tagging behind Damian at various points in the past. Or maybe he’s the other one? The rotund one with a bowl cut?

“Of course,” he lies. “Ewen.”

“You’re full of it.” Becky goes back to her folding. “You don’t remember him at all.”

Demetrius can only shrug. When she’s right, she’s right.

“Anyway,” she continues, “since you like Math and Physics so much, maybe you’d be a scientist? Or a professor?”

The mental wall looms in front of him again, but this time he pauses before it instead of turning straight around. Cautiously, he lets himself grope for the top of it, testing its height with his fingertips as he slowly speaks.

“Maybe... I actually almost went on a summer research trip with one of the Physics professors from college.” He admits it before he realizes what he’s saying.

Becky perks up. “Oh, that sounds exciting! Why didn’t you go?”

Why, indeed.

The simple answer is that he didn’t actually apply for it, but the real, more complicated answer is that it served no purpose for him to go. More accurately, Donovan wouldn’t have liked it if he had gone, because what need did a politician have for summer research trips when tutors were waiting for him at home? At the time Physics had just been one of the many classes on his rotation as he finished his degree, and in his father’s eyes it was nowhere near the top in terms of priority.

Therefore, naturally, it also had to be unimportant to Demetrius.

‘It’s too bad you aren’t applying,’ his professor had said with real regret. ‘It would be an amazing opportunity for you, and I think you would contribute some really good work to the project.’

He frowns as he remembers the man’s words. It’s been years, so why does it suddenly sting to think of them?

“It just didn’t work out,” he finally replies, but the answer doesn’t sit as right with him as it once did.

“Well, I think you’d make a good professor or scientist,” Becky says as she finishes her portion of the stack of flyers. “You’re certainly smart enough.”

He’s gratified at her breezy compliment and it helps to take some of the strange disquiet out of his mind. It’s no use thinking too much about it, but maybe she’s right. In another life maybe he could have stayed in academia, made a career out of Math or Physics, surrounded himself with numbers and formulas and hours of research and solitude in university labs and libraries. He’d make a quiet go of living, bothering no one and being unbothered himself, and all of the political circus that is his current life would be a totally foreign concept. Maybe he would live in a quiet apartment just off-campus, or a small home in the outskirts of the city, somewhere he could retreat to with a sigh of relief after long days of satisfying mental strain.

Maybe he’d have a wife, a pretty brunette with a bombshell barrette and a bright smile, to greet him.

He’s too shocked at the image to do anything other than suck in a breath, and all the years of keeping one expression on his face saves his jaw from dropping open. He has never truly imagined something like that, with anyone, and his mind careens back to safer ground in desperation.

Of course, he plans to marry someday. That’s always been understood. But the woman has always been formless and faceless and unimportant, but now, one face and form are all that spring to mind when he pictures the role. It is so at odds with everything he thought he knew that it leaves him staggered.

“Okay, done!” Becky announces, completely oblivious to the turmoil happening across from her. “Let’s put these in the mail room for tomorrow and call it a night.”

“Of course,” Demetrius agrees with as much composure as he can. “Let me give you a ride home.”

Becky agrees with a slight smile that only widens as Demetrius assists her with putting on her coat. It is a gentlemanly gesture he would normally do out of pure obligation, but now it seems the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t let his hands linger on her shoulders and arms the way they want to, but as they leave the office together, Demetrius is aware of a tightness in his chest that has everything to do with the young woman at his side.

Because even when he imagines another version for himself, she is there, laughing and prodding at him and making him feel alive in a way he’s never been before. It’s scary, but it also feels right for her to be next to him, in his car, in his life, and as he drives them through the streets of Berlint, his body feels too tight for the emotions welling inside of him.

Is this love? He turns his advanced intellect to the issue, considers all the evidence, and finally decides that on balance of probabilities, it most certainly is.

Which is essentially a catastrophe of epic proportions. He is wholly unprepared for something like this, but even if he was, it is certainly the last thing he needs with everything else he has going on in his life at the moment. Emotional commitments on this scale are things for other people, and yet here he is, listening to Becky’s chatter as if there is no sound sweeter in all the world. He has no experience or earthly idea of what to do about these feelings, and all he can see by going down this road is humiliation on a scale that hardly bears thinking about.

But still... still...

He is happy, maybe for the first time in his life. And when Becky says good night and gives him a cheery wave from the front door of her ostentatious family home, Demetrius can’t help but smile as he pulls the car away.

Tomorrow, after all, is a new day, and this time he is actually looking forward to it.

The rest of the campaign passes by Demetrius in a blur.

Within a week Wilson reports that he’s received an uptick in approval among the young, single women demographic, a fact that Demetrius accepts with none of the surprise he actually feels. He supposes that it’s nice to be considered something of a heartthrob, but really, he only cares about the opinion of one young, single woman in particular, and the more he interacts with her in the day-to-day duties of the campaign, the more he wonders just what the hell he’s meant to do now.

Becky flits with her usual energy from task to task, and the more she proves herself, the more responsibilities she takes on from Wilson and the more she is in contact with Demetrius. It soon becomes a usual thing to see her at Demetrius’ desk and going over some minutiae of the campaign with him, and even though he tries to keep a calm and detached manner with her, he can’t help the way his eyes stay riveted on her expressive face or the way his heart beats faster when she’s near.

The enmity from the early days of their acquaintance is totally gone now, and if he didn’t know any better then he would think Becky enjoys spending time with him just as he enjoys spending time with her. Certainly, she has no hesitation in poking fun at him with almost insulting over-familiarity, but perversely, he finds that any attention she gives him is good; and when they do have to work together in the afterhours of the day, she seems content to stay as long as needed and always accepts his rides home with a flattering look of pleasure.

He starts to hate the times he has to be away from headquarters for appearances and obligations, and anytime he’s offsite to make a speech or work a room, half of his mind is wondering where she is and what she’s doing instead. If he returns to the office and finds she has already gone home then his mood is dull and listless for the rest of the night, and as soon as he sees her again, it is like color and light return to the world. He tries not to find excuses to talk with her but some days he can’t help it, and when he does, he finds himself being more open with her than with anyone else, even including Damian. He’s not spilling all of his secrets by any means – he still has some pride – but whenever he makes her laugh with a dry observation, he tucks the sound away to replay over and over again in the solitude of night.

It’s wonderful to be around her like this. Addicting. Perfect. Like she is.

But also, torturous. Horrible. Because as the days tick by he knows their time together is drawing to a close. She’s only here to work on the campaign after all, didn’t she make that clear from day one? And for all his fledgling hopes he’s realistic enough to know that he probably isn’t what she wants. Didn’t she also say he wasn’t likable all those weeks ago? Nothing about that has changed despite the increase in public approval. He’s still Demetrius: too remote and too awkward and too under his father’s thumb for someone as wonderfully outgoing and independent as her.

All that has changed are his feelings, and when have those mattered at all?

The final round of elections looms, and Demetrius knows that even if he does somehow win, the success will be strangely hollow.

He knows he won’t win, however. The numbers have been getting better but he started too far behind and all the work of the campaign has brought him higher but not high enough. Unless some morbid miracle occurs and the other three candidates drop dead in the street from simultaneous heart attacks, this is the end of everything.

Strangely, he doesn’t really care.

He’s disappointed, of course. You don’t completely disregard the habits of a lifetime in a matter of weeks, and the knowledge that this failure – and it is a failure – will be a black mark on his psyche is all too real and immediate. He can already hear his father’s disdain, the too-fake condolences of his political peers, and the awkward but genuine sympathies of his mother, his brother, and his brother’s little girlfriend. He cringes inside at all of them.

But after that initial reaction, he finds himself more concerned with the fact that no more campaign means no more opportunities to see Becky, and that loss is what truly hits him hard.

He pushes himself through it as best he can during those final few days, and thankfully, his schedule is packed so full with last-minute appearances and calls for support that he barely has time to think about how hopeless it all is. By the time election day dawns, he is exhausted, emotionally wrung out, and despondent, but he still heads to the polling booth with a confident smile for the cameras just like he’s been trained to do.

He almost doesn’t vote for himself just so he’s finally in on the cosmic joke that is his life, but he refrains.

Finally, it is done. He heads back to headquarters where Wilson and Becky have organized a party to thank the workers for all their efforts, and Demetrius thinks this is very smart. After all, it is better to call it a celebration of gratitude rather than label it a victory celebration, because everyone there knows that there is probably no victory to be had.

People trickle in and out and Demetrius is sure to thank them all, even Blake as the boy chokes back tears, giving it one last hurrah as the confident candidate before the numbers start to come in. When they do it is just as he expected, and the gathering takes on a somber, almost embarrassed air as the results are made plain.

Demetrius Desmond, future Prime Minister of Ostania, has lost his first election. Undeniably. Horribly.

It hurts. He had hoped it somehow wouldn’t, but it does.

Later, after the last worker has left with a muttered word of sympathy, Demetrius sits at his desk and pokes at the strange numbness inside of him. He’s waiting for the inevitable call from his father, and the fact that it hasn’t come yet is proof of the man’s displeasure. Donovan is letting him stew in his failure and Demetrius should be raking himself over the coals, but instead he feels a curious detachment about all of it.

His dreams and aspirations lay in ruins all around, and as he glances around at his little headquarters, he wonders what it was all even for.

‘...you don’t care and you don’t want to do this. Any of this. At all.’

Becky’s words come winging out of the stillness and settle in his soul. He’d hated her for saying it back then, but here on the other side of absolute disaster, he can only acknowledge the truth of it.

The election loss is embarrassing, no doubt about that, but it also leaves him feeling... strange. Light. Untethered and not weighed down.

He doesn’t understand it but maybe, just maybe, he might be starting to.

This is the worst thing that has ever happened to him but he’s not crushed or even all that sad, because no matter what his father said or what he told himself he had to do, this was never what he wanted in the first place.

Which then begs the question: what does he want? Does he even know?

No, he doesn’t. But for the first time in the nearly three decades of his life, he allows himself the luxury of not knowing.

A curious and almost painful feeling starts to well up in his chest. It burns up behind his sternum and his heart beats fast and strong, and he finds it hard to catch a breath. He claps his hand over his mouth and bends forward, disbelief warring with alarm at what is happening to him, but there’s no denying the strength of whatever it is that’s threatening to burst out of him.

Realization dawns bright and clear in his mind: he’s lost, and now he can do anything.

A giddy sound escapes him and he nearly cackles like a mad man; thoughts and plans unravel in his mind, curl back up, shoot out again like new buds on a tree branch at the first light of springtime.

He’s rich, he’s young, he’s intelligent, he could bend his mind and body to any endeavor besides politics and make a success of it, so why – why – would he be a politician when he could be literally anything else?

He could go back to school for his doctorate, and then get a post doctorate fellowship of some kind and make his idle dreams of living in academia come true. Or he could join a private research lab somewhere, or even travel! He has his own money – he came into his trust fund years ago – so there is no real, earthly thing stopping him from going out and just... living.

He allows himself to think that he is not Demetrius Desmond, future Prime Minister. Maybe he IS just Demetrius Desmond, period, but who that is, he has no idea.

He wants to find out.

The desk chair is pushed back with a clatter as Demetrius stands, his back straighter and his gaze more alert than it’s ever been before. He feels like he’s full to bursting with determination, but to do what, exactly, he doesn’t know. He just knows that this sad little room with the echoes of some other Demetrius’s apathetic hopes is not the place for him, and if he has to stay here even one minute more, he will start tearing the place apart.

He bolts for the door even as the phone on his desk starts ringing but he ignores it. He’ll have some explaining to do to Donovan for missing his call but he doesn’t care – he doesn’t care – and all he wants to do is go outside and breathe.

Demetrius is tearing down the hall at such a pace that he doesn’t register the door opening or the person emerging from behind it until it’s almost too late, and only a desperate, last-second swerve on his part stops him from running them over completely.

“Demetrius!” Becky squeaks in shock as she falls back towards the bathroom door.

“Becky,” he gasps as he stumbles against the wall opposite. His nerves are frayed beyond recognition and his mind is buzzing like it never has before and his heart is probably about to give out, but still, the sight of her calls his attention like nothing else.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks, and then he notices her red eyes, splotchy complexion, and overall air of desolation. “You’re crying?”

“Oh,” she sniffs, and dabs at her nose with a wadded-up tissue. “Yeah, I was... just...” her face crumples as she fights for composure, “I was... just... oh, don’t look at me!”

And then she runs back into the bathroom with a wail of misery.

Of all the things Demetrius was hoping to do with his newfound sense of freedom, comforting a sobbing girl was nowhere near the top of the list. But what can he do? Leave her?

... Well, yes, he absolutely could, and normally would, but this isn’t some random girl. It’s Becky, and the sight of her unhappy face is already making his stomach twist, so he approaches the bathroom door and gives a tentative knock.

“Er, Becky, please come out. You shouldn’t cry.” Ever.

“Just go away!”

“I wish I could.” And he means it. “But I can’t leave you.” He means that, too.

Becky emerges, sniffling and embarrassed, and he has a wondering moment at how she can still look pretty and put-together even when she’s having some sort of breakdown. He’s having a breakdown and can bet he looks nowhere near as good.

Which reminds him: “Why are you crying?”

She looks up at him with disbelief.

“Because you lost. All of our hard work! All of your initiatives and the hours you put into this campaign, gone!” She scrubs at her face and her eyes are wide and full of sorrow. “I’m so, so sorry, Demetrius. I really thought I could help.”

It takes him a moment to realize that, oh yes, Becky is still living in the universe where the campaign loss matters somehow. Demetrius has gone through so many emotions so rapidly in just the last five minutes that it feels like that was years ago, and he has to wrangle his thoughts and turn them back around to the present so he can even begin to understand what she’s going through.

“Success was never your responsibility,” he reminds her, because that’s just the truth. And because he’s apparently morphed into someone completely different, he continues. “The campaign wouldn’t have been anywhere near as smooth or successful as it was without you on board. You changed everything for the better.”

Including – and especially – himself, he now realizes, and he wonders if she even sees that.

Becky looks gratified. “Thank you. And, you know... you’re taking this really well.” She wipes her eyes and peers at him closely. “Or, are you? Are you okay? You look... different.”

“I am different,” he states, and means it down to his very bones. He licks his lips and feels the words rushing out of him, leaving him both powerless and elated at the same time. “Do you remember what you said about how failing might be good for me? I didn’t believe it then but I think I do now.”

Becky blinks and he takes a step forward. He knows he sounds half-crazed and breathless and he hopes he isn’t scaring her, but he can’t help it: the words have to get out NOW or they might never have another chance.

“I don’t want to be a politician.” He says it with the air of admitting a huge secret, and for all intents and purposes, that’s just what it is: a secret so large he didn’t even know about it himself until she showed him it was possible. “I’m clearly not meant for it, and I thought that would mean I’m a huge failure, but I don’t think it does. I don’t know what I want to do, but it isn’t being in front of people all the time and making speeches and – and – all of that. What I want... What I want...”

He tries to get his pulse back under control but it is so difficult. He’s never even thought about what he truly wants before, and now he’s trying to articulate all of the heady, limitless horizons that are unfolding behind his eyes and in his heart.

It’s impossible. There’s too much to say all at once.

So maybe he should start simple.

“What I want... is to take you out to dinner.” He straightens, and calm settles over him that is totally at odds with the hysterical laughter that’s about to break from his throat. Is he really going to risk absolute heartbreak in the first ten minutes of his brand-new life? Apparently, yes. “In fact, in my entire life, I think I’ve only ever really wanted to do just that.”

Becky stares at him, her eyes wide and lips slightly parted, and everything in Demetrius hangs breathless in the moment.

“I...” she begins, and she holds his gaze with an awestruck look. “I... yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes,” she repeats, and huffs a breathless laugh as if she can’t believe what’s happening. That makes two of them. “Yes, I want to go to dinner with you. I thought you’d never ask.”

“What?”

Becky laughs again in disbelief. “Do you think I stayed all those nights because I liked putting in long hours and drinking buckets of coffee? I like you, Demetrius.”

She blushes but he can’t react except to stare dumbly even as hot, fierce joy starts to pound in his chest. “Like” isn’t “love,” but he’ll take it.

He licks his lips and moves closer to her, willingly, and not even wondering at the newness of the desire to reduce the space between him and another human being. Anything that moves him towards Becky is exactly right and should not be questioned.

“You said I wasn’t likable.”

Becky looks at him as if he’s crazy.

“When did I say that?”

“That night, at the espresso machine. You told me people didn’t trust me or like me.” He has no idea why he’s trying to sabotage his own happiness, but a part of him just can’t understand that his feelings are at all reciprocated and is demanding to know the real truth. He wishes he could go back to not ever wanting to talk. “But... you like me?”

She looks down at the floor. “I shouldn’t have said that the way I did. I was just... mad at you.” He doesn’t respond, so she continues. “At Eden, you were... You were this untouchable genius and all of us in the lower grades were in awe of what you were capable of and what you’d end up doing. You were like an idol! Then I met you in person and really talked to you and you just seemed... so uncaring. I thought you were just another stuck up Desmond male, but I was wrong. I saw how much of a toll the entire campaign took on you but you never gave up, and that made me see there was so much more to you than I ever thought.”

She takes a deep breath and then finally looks up at him, light brown eyes soft and shining.

“You’re really amazing, Demetrius.”

Demetrius is too stunned to react at first, but once her words penetrate, he huffs out a laugh, a quiet and underwhelming reaction to be sure, but Becky knows him well enough now to see the warring emotions going on beneath the surface. She smiles and holds out her hand for him to take, just waiting for him, and all the old uncertainties and fears come back in an instant.

The idea of willingly getting close to someone else, of possibly having a real future with them, should absolutely terrify him, and it does. He has lived his entire life knowing what to expect almost down to the minute, but now he has no idea what the next year, day, or even moment will bring. With Becky it will be nothing but mysteries and risks all the way down, and is he really able to commit to that much unknowing?

Yes, without a doubt. In fact, he can’t wait.

Becky is smiling at him, and what else can he do but take her hand in his? She blushes happily, and as Demetrius starts his final walk out of the headquarters that once held everything that he thought he’d ever be, he doesn’t even look back once.

Instead, he looks to his side where Becky walks next to him, where she should be, and as she meets his eye and gives his hand an encouraging little squeeze, Demetrius can’t help but smile softly.

Because this, confusing as it all might be... this, finally, he understands.